


An unexpected life

by elessar_undomiel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Kidlock, M/M, Retirementlock, Suicide Attempt, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elessar_undomiel/pseuds/elessar_undomiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's life is never as he expects it will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An unexpected life

**Author's Note:**

> This is for queerjawn. I wanted to write some cute fluff but... This sort of happened! Hope you like this sad little thing :)

When he was eight he thought he would be a pirate.  
He would have loved to play pirates with Mycroft, but he was always busy, always studying or doing other stupid stuff that grownups do.  
He would have loved to play with other children as well, but they never wanted to. The first time they had called him a freak he had come back home and cried. Mycroft had hugged him and said that they were idiots, and Sherlock hadn’t told their parents that he had sworn because if he had pissed his brother off maybe he would have never hugged him again. It hadn’t worked, though: it had been the first and last time.  
But Sherlock didn’t care, because he had Redbeard, and Redbeard played pirates with him, and he never called him a freak, and he always licked Sherlock’s face when he was sad, and that was even better than Mycroft’s hug. As long as he had Redbeard, Sherlock didn’t need other friends.  
  
When he was fifteen he didn’t think about the future.  
He skipped classes and laid on a bench in the park, smoking cigarettes and sometimes weed. He didn’t have friends, though: he wasn’t a child anymore, he had found out that caring wasn’t an advantage.  
  
When he was twenty one he thought he would die before reaching thirty.  
He didn’t care, why should he? Life was so boring, and drugs were the only way to make it better. Cocaine, usually, but also stronger things. Sometimes he tried to end it all, filling his syringe with more junk than he could stand, and he basked in the growing feeling of sweet nothing that enveloped him. But then, every time, he woke up in a hospital bed, a pitying and disappointed look on his brother’s face.  
  
When he was twenty eight he decided to be a consulting detective.  
He decided to brush off all of those idiots who had ever called him a freak, he decided to be that freak and do something he liked. He didn’t do it because he was a good man. He wasn’t a hero, heroes didn’t exist, and if they did Sherlock wouldn’t be one of them. But it was fun, it helped him to fight boredom. A few times he almost gave up to drugs again, but it got better with time.  
  
When he was thirty four he hoped life could be like this forever.  
Living with John, solving cases with John, laughing with John, watching crap telly with John, eating with John. Being in love with John. Sometimes it hurt, when he realised that John could never love him as much as Sherlock loved him, but it was fine. John was his friend and it was far more than he deserved.  
  
When he was forty five he felt he could face anything life would offer.  
There had been bad times. He had faked his death and come back to life, lost the love of his life to a woman that would, later on, shoot him and then break John’s heart.  
But there had been good times as well: John coming back to Baker Street, John confessing his love, their first kiss, their first time, their marriage. He had John at last, everything else was background noise.  
  
When he was sixty five he just wanted some peace.  
That’s why they had retired to a cosy cottage in Sussex. Sherlock took care of the bees and John took care of Sherlock.  
  
When he was eighty three he didn’t know what he wished.  
John’s illness was terminal, and it was getting worse every day. He couldn’t move from the bed, he could barely speak, he needed Sherlock to spoon-feed him. Sherlock hated seeing him suffering, and yet he knew he didn’t want him to go. He couldn’t live without John.  
  
When he was eighty four he knew it was over.  
He laid next to John’s lifeless body, feeling its warmth fading away. He hoped with all his heart that there would be a life after death. He just wanted to hear his laughter once more. He curled up against his husband’s side, as he did when they were young, and closed his eyes.


End file.
